


The Fall of the Bastard of Arthur Dayne

by jesuisbree



Series: The True Sword of the Morning [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-07-29 10:09:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7680337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesuisbree/pseuds/jesuisbree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It was not Jaime Lannister that had greeted her, but rumors. Rumors that had been whispered around her, whispers about how Jaime Lannister had been captured by Robb Stark’s men, the Boltons, who had chopped his sword hand off, and had returned to the capitol after a year, looking gaunt, sickly, and more of a ragged dog than a lion. Supposedly, he’d been back for a while now; his golden hair cropped short, a good amount of stubble at his chin, and a haunted look in his eyes. Word had it he’d been given a golden hand to replace the other, but people had barely seen him since he’d returned.</i>
</p><p>  <i>	All this she had heard in merely a day and Ayleth wanted nothing more to see him, to ask him how he was doing, and be in his presence once more. But most of all, she wanted to know if these rumors had any truth to them.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Ayleth found herself in the royal gardens once more, sitting on a bench as a soft wind ruffled through the trees. They’d been there for a day and she already realized that Kings Landing had changed so drastically since the last time she had been there. Her eyes glanced over to the spot where her tent had been pitched for that tourney such a long time ago, studying the spot before purposefully glancing over the statue of Joffrey that had been placed in the middle of a small reflection pond. The boy king was a violent idiot, in her opinion, and did not deserve, nor understood the responsibility it meant, to sit on the Iron Throne. 

Honestly, she knew she would not be immediately greeted by Ser Jaime Lannister. To have him take her into his arms openly was something she did not wish for. But she longed to see his warm smile, his emerald eyes, and his blond hair. She longed to hear his voice and the strong, proud footsteps with which he walked. She knew she barely knew him, but she missed the part of him that she did know and oft wondered if he missed her. It was not Jaime Lannister that had greeted her, but rumors. Rumors that had been whispered around her, whispers about how Jaime Lannister had been captured by Robb Stark’s men, the Boltons, who had chopped his sword hand off, and had returned to the capitol after a year, looking gaunt, sickly, and more of a ragged dog than a lion. Supposedly, he’d been back for a while now; his golden hair cropped short, a good amount of stubble at his chin, and a haunted look in his eyes. Word had it he’d been given a golden hand to replace the other, but people had barely seen him since he’d returned.

All this she had heard in merely a day and Ayleth wanted nothing more to see him, to ask him how he was doing, and be in his presence once more. But most of all, she wanted to know if these rumors had any truth to them.

“What’s got my warrior woman so thoughtful?” A welcomed voice murmured beside her and she turned her head to spy one Oberyn Martell watching her with a small smile on his lips. She stood from the bench and met him with a small smile of her own. She’d traveled to the capitol with the Dornish prince and his paramour, Ellaria Sand, and the rest of his entourage. For the past few years, Ayleth had been in Sunspear with the Martell family, serving as both a guard and friend to Oberyn. She soon learned that there was truth to his nickname, the Red Viper, and needed no guard, but Oberyn insisted on keeping her close to him.

“There’s been a shift in things here since I was last here. I’m trying to come to terms with it,” she told him truthfully, though she neglected to mention her mind was haunted by the Young Lion, knowing his disdain for the Lannister family. Oberyn drew in a deep breath of air, his dark eyes wandering over the woman beside her. He was wearing his Martell orange, and under any other circumstance Ayleth would have been asked to wear the same, but Oberyn knew how strongly she felt toward maintaining that she was a Dayne, and was allowed to wear the royal purple of her family. She was wearing a long gown with a bit of a train, the sleeves made of a sheer purple fabric that shimmered silver in the sunlight. Silver shooting stars had been embroidered around the low neckline and the dress was clasped together with the pin of a sword. Naturally, her swords were tucked into her boots and a dagger was strapped to her thigh.

“We will only be here for a short amount of time for the wedding of the King and be back on our way to Sunspear before we know it,” Oberyn told her, managing a crooked smile for her. She looked up at him for a moment as they began to stroll through the garden, watching as servants rushed around as they tried to prepare for the royal wedding. 

“Something is not sitting well with me about this place,” she told him, pulling her vibrant amethyst eyes from his to glance around the garden. Her face said it all, she was highly uncomfortable and uneasy. Oberyn took a step in front of her and placed his hands on her arms, looking down at her with his easy grin and carefree attitude.

“Ayleth,” he said in a soft voice that lilted with his Sunspear accent, his eyes locked on hers, “we will be fine. Like I’ve said, we will be here for such a short amount of time. Now, come, we’ll have a few drinks out on the balcony of my room, maybe some Dornish red will put your mind at ease.” A heavy sigh left her as she looked up at him helplessly. He lifted a cupped hand to her chin for a moment before leaning forward and pressing his lips to her forehead. To anyone on the outside, Oberyn would appear to have another paramour in Ayleth Dayne, but there were merely very affectionate friends. Of course, in the beginning, they had tested the waters and gone to bed with each other frequently, but now it was mainly an occurrence that happened when they had too much wine. They were adult enough to keep that part of their lives separate from what happened when they were in the public eye. Oberyn knew that Ayleth felt she had no one who cared for her, and was determined to make her feel otherwise.

The woman walked beside the Dornish prince and forced her expression to relax into a passive one. The last thing she needed was to have rumors floating about that she was worried about her time in the Red Keep. Silence encompassed them as they entered the Red Keep and walked the labyrinth of halls, her hands relaxed at her sides, though she was ready to grasp at her blades at a moments notice. She wouldn't put it past someone to try and off either her, Oberyn, or the both of them.

As the two of them turned a corner, Ayleth felt her insides freeze and her heart leap into her throat. She drew in a deep breath of air as her eyes landed on Jaime Lannister. Her eyes slipped over to Oberyn, who regarded the Lannister with a cool look in his eyes. When she looked back at Jaime, he had paused and was watching her with a slightly shocked expression, as if he hadn’t expected to see her in the capitol. 

“Ser Jaime,” Oberyn offered, with a nod of his head as both he and Ayleth stopped just shy of the knight. Jaime had his eyes glued to Ayleth and her eyes were glued to him. Oberyn glanced between the two of them, brow furrowed with thought before Jaime broke off their gaze to look over at the dark-haired man.

“Prince Oberyn,” Jamie replied with a courteous nod of his head before his eyes slipped over to Ayleth, who was watching him apprehensively, “Lady Ayleth.” Oberyn raised a brow, putting it together that these two knew each other.

“I was unaware you knew my warrior woman,” the viper said softly, eyes darting between Ayleth and Jaime. The woman turned her head to look over at Oberyn, eyes locking with his.

“We met at a tourney what seems like ages ago,” she said, a small smile curling her lips as her eyes shot to Jaime for a moment before returning to Oberyn. “If you please, give me a moment alone with Ser Jaime and I’ll meet you back in your room and explain everything,” she asked Oberyn, pleading with her eyes. Oberyn’s expression softened, knowingly, and he merely gave the woman a nod and a grin before sweeping past her and continuing to his room. Ayleth’s violet gaze followed him before she turned to Jaime and took him in.

He did look very gaunt, dark circles under his eyes and cheekbones and jawbone prominent. His skin was not quite as tanned as she remembered it and there were a few more wrinkles around the corners of his eyes and mouth. His hair was cropped short, streaks of grey around his temples. He was dressed in his golden Kingsguard armor, white cloak almost sweeping the ground behind him. Her eyes then met the golden hand at his side and her lips pursed slightly; finally realizing the rumors had been true. Her eyes swiftly lifted, not wanting to make him feel uncomfortable with her prolonged gaze, and locked back on his eyes, which had probably changed the most since she last saw him. The cheeky, confident glimmer that haunted her memories was gone and replaced with a hollow, lifeless look. It was like the thing that drove him to draw breath had left him altogether and she could easily figure out it had something to do with his sword hand gone missing. He was wounded and had not even begun to heal. The rumors were true.

“It’s good to see you again, Ser Jaime,” Ayleth managed, her eyes darting between both of his. His eyes were tracing over her, as if he were looking for anything that had changed in the time they had not seen each other. Jaime found his mouth dry, much like the first time they had met in the royal gardens. And, still, it seemed like she was the only woman that could produce such a reaction from him.

She was still an formidable presence, strong and commanding respect. Fine lines had crept around the corners of her eyes, but other than that, she appeared to have not aged a day. Her skin was still a radiant alabaster, though her dark hair was streaked with grey. She was still just as beautiful, just as able to fight as she was the day he left her tent. Though, there was something deep in her eyes; apprehension, fear, unease, and a foreboding sort of darkness. He wasn’t sure if this was just something she was exposing to him or if the feeling had become so great that she wasn’t able to hide it any more. It unsettled Jaime.

“You are still as beautiful as the day I saw you last, Ayleth,” he said softly, managing the smallest of smiles for the woman. She returned the smile for a moment before it slipped from her lips. There was that feeling that they both had missed between their long years apart; that feeling of goosebumps and skin prickling before an electric shock. “Have you been well?” Jaime asked, the corner of his lips twitching like he meant to smile again, but didn’t.

“I have,” she said softly with a small nod. Silence fell between the two once more as they watched each other for a few long moments. Just as Jaime went to ask what she was doing with Oberyn Martell, she spoke again. “I live in Sunspear now. I’m both a guard and advisor to Prince Oberyn…and a friend, when he needs one. Not that Prince Oberyn needs a guard, but I provide him another set of eyes when he is otherwise occupied.” Jaime merely nodded, eyes darting between both of hers as she fell silent once more. Good, Jaime thought to himself, she got away from Alastair and her “mother” and is now in the company of Dornish royalty, where she belongs. He cleared his throat and his gaze fell to the floor.

“I suppose you’ve heard all about where I have been,” he murmured, the golden hand at his side weighing heavier poignantly. He heard a deep breath of air behind drawn in by the woman in front of him and he could imagine her looking at him in pity. He only looked up when he heard the sound of a footfall stepping closer to him. His eyes met Ayleth’s and he saw a tidal wave of emotion building in the violet hues there; pity, however, did not reside in her eyes and that soothed him a bit. Before he knew it, her strong fingertips had wrapped around his golden hand and she lifted it, fingertips tracing the designs on the back of it tenderly. Jaime wanted to tug his hand away, shirk back into the shadows with embarrassment, but her eyes kept him locked there and he could have sworn he almost felt her featherlight touch against his skin. His pulse was rushing in his ears and his eyes prickled at how brave and gentle she was being. Most anyone who saw his hand either made a point not to look at it, stared at it outright, or acted like it was something to be feared; Ayleth was treating it like it was his hand, his real hand. And he could not remember the last time another human being treated him with such tenderness.

She then lifted the artisan-crafted prosthetic to her cheek, taking another step toward him as she leaned into the cool touch of the metal. Her eyes never left his and he dared not look away. Her long-fingered, graceful hand cradled the false hand against her cheek, eyes darting between his. “Ser Jaime,” she whispered, as if she feared ears were listening in to them, “come to my room tonight; south wing, fourth floor corridor and second door to the right. Wear something comfortable, something you can move in.” She gently let his hand fall back to his side, eyes lingering on his before she turned and followed the path that Oberyn had taken.

Jaime stood in the same spot, a bit confused and flabbergasted with the woman that just swept away from him. He’d never imagined meeting her again, especially not as a guest at the Royal Wedding, and to find that she was a guard for a Prince. He imagined she followed Oberyn around dutifully, always ready for a well-aimed blade in the shadows to protect him from. She had made it seem, in their earlier meeting, that being in such a position would bring her no greater joy, but he’d seen something troubling in her gaze when he first saw her in the hallway with Oberyn. Did she wear the look in her eyes because she’d heard about him? Was it because she was back in Kings Landing? Or was there something else weighing heavily on her mind? With a heavy sigh, Jaime turned and began to walk to his quarters to finalize the Kingsguard positions during the Royal Wedding.

Ayleth knocked on the wooden barrier that blocked her from Oberyn’s room, which was just across from hers. It was odd, staying in the Red Keep, because she had been barred from it the only other time she had been in the capitol. 

“Come in,” she heard the muffled voice of the Dornish prince from within the room and she pulled open the door. She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her, sliding the lock into place before stepping further into the suite. Oberyn was standing just inside the archway leading to his balcony, watching Ayleth expectantly, a glass goblet of wine in each of his hands. He met Ayleth halfway as she stepped into the room. Without a word, she took the goblet of wine from him as he slid his arm through hers and lead her out onto the balcony, into the bright sunlight.

He detached from her as she tipped the goblet back and took a sip of the wine. Oberyn was watching her carefully with his dark eyes and she was staring boldly back at him, showing him that she was unashamed and unafraid of whatever conversation they were about to have. Ayleth stepped over to the balcony, breaking their gaze, and walked over to the balcony, resting her free hand on the top of the railing.

“You love him, don’t you, my warrior woman?” Oberyn broached the topic gently, taking a seat and allowing the woman to have space. He watched as her head fell forward slightly, watching her profile as her eyes slipped shut and her mouth pursed slightly. A heavy sigh left her and she turned, leaning back against the railing as she watched Oberyn. Her fingertips tapped against the glass chalice in her hand, bottom lip between her teeth.

“I know how you feel about Lannisters, Oberyn,” she said softly, dodging his question. She knew that he would know if she lied about the way that she felt, so it was better for him to suss it out without the words actually leaving her mouth to confirm it. “But I give you my word when I say that man is not Tywin. If he was, my father would not have had him knighted.” The Dornish Prince’s expression crumpled and he let out a hiss, looking away from her. She could see his jaw clench beneath his skin and knew she was touching on a sensitive subject with him.

“But he is a Lannister,” he spat the name through clenched teeth and Ayleth knew she had to be careful about what she said. She swept over to him, kneeling in front of the Prince and locking eyes with him. It was rare that she fought for others verbally, to try and clear a name or redirect anger. But she felt very protective of the Young Lion, and had made it a point to constantly correct those who called him “Kingslayer”. Many were not brave enough to argue with her. Her reasoning with Oberyn would have to be much different, knowing his history with the Lannister family.

“And you are a Martell. I am a Dayne,” she replied, placing her goblet aside and taking his hand in hers. “If we were all judged upon by what our forefathers and parents did or on family names alone, there would be no one in all of the lands left,” she soothed, her fingertips brushing soft paths across his knuckles. Oberyn still looked like he wanted to spit venom, to hit something. “Hate Tywin. Hate Tywin’s men. Hate the Mountain. But it was not Ser Jaime who gave those orders,” she said and she could feel Oberyn’s hand tightening slightly around her own. She knew him well and knew he would rather pitch himself from the balcony rather than think of hurting her, physically or emotionally. Oberyn was quiet for the longest time, deep amber eyes searching into amethyst. Ayleth opened up to him like a book instead of sanctioning her emotions away, hoping that was enough for him to see just how she felt about Jaime Lannister. Her knees were beginning to ache on the hard floor, but she dared not move. Eventually, the Prince lifted his hand to her chin once more, his eyes swooping over her petite nose and strong cheekbones, her full lips and spray of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

“You must think a lot of the Young Lion for you to be this way, my Sword of the Morning,” Oberyn spoke in a soft voice, his anger obviously passed in his silence. A smile pulled at his own lips as a wide smile, one of the first he’d been able to produce from Ayleth since they reached King’s Landing, spread across Ayleth’s rose colored lips. 

“Yes, my Prince,” she said, “I think quite a lot of Ser Jaime Lannister.”

 

___________________________

 

Jaime found himself sneaking to the south wing of the Red Keep, not wanting eyes to find him sneaking into Ayleth Dayne’s room this late at night. Nothing good would come from that and he would surely face the wrath of not only his father, but Cersei as well. He tried to keep his feet as quiet as possible on the stone beneath them, ears honed to listen for movement around him.

He had been reeling for the rest of the day from seeing Ayleth in the capitol and he didn’t know what to do. He thought of her quiet frequently since their time together; replaying their moments so they stayed real and not some sort of figment of his imagination. Jaime considered telling her that she was the one who came to him in his dreams when his body and mind fevered with infection as he slept under the stars, short a sword hand and only Brienne of Tarth there to protect him. Ayleth had been a soft, calming whisper in his mind, her fingertips cool and soothing over his scalding forehead in his imagination. She visited him in his sleep, cradled him in her arms, and tended to him; not his mother, not Cersei, only Ayleth and her serenity. She pleaded gently with him to pull through, to not lie to her about meeting once again. Jaime gave these dreams of Ayleth, accompanied with Brienne’s duty when he was in the waking world to keeping him alive, the credit of giving him the energy and strength he needed to pull through.

Soon enough, he found himself in front of the door Ayleth told him was hers for the time she was here. He glanced both ways down the hallway, hearing muffled noises from Oberyn’s room, before lifting his hand, his good hand, and rapping his knuckles gently against the door. A few moments passed before the door was cracked open and Ayleth was looking up at him. She pulled the door open fully and motioned for him to enter. Jaime nodded once and stepped into the room, Ayleth quickly closing and latching the door behind him. He noted that the shutters had been closed to the balcony and the room was lit by a few candelabras and she had cleared the furniture completely from one room.

She looked over Jaime as she walked further into the room, sweeping past him. He noted she was wearing thin breeches and a sleeveless bodice. It was a dark purple, naturally, and the breeches were black. Ayleth stepped over to a table and lifted two swords from it. Jaime froze for a moment, watching her closely as she stepped back over to him. Her eyes locked on Jaime’s as she grasped both swords in one hand.

“What did you call me here for?” Jaime asked, though he could wager a guess. She drew in a deep breath before lifting one of the swords and turning it in her hand and extending the hilt of the blade to him. She said not a word as she watched him, eyes boring into his.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back with the first chapter of part two of this series! Thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

“No,” was all Jaime could think of saying. He watched Ayleth closely, jaw clenching. He was not about to spar with her and have himself drop the sword or be beaten by her in such a condition. Her expression remained stolid, violet eyes boring into his green. She took a step closer, holding the handle of the blade a bit closer to him, the look in her eyes daring him to tell her ‘no’ again. Jaime drew in a deep breath of air, drawing himself up a bit taller as he steeled himself. They stood there for a few silent moments; Ayleth’s mouth pressed into a thin line and Jaime gritting his teeth.

“No,” he repeated and Ayleth’s calm expression gave way to slight anger.

“No?” She questioned him, her brows furrowing slightly as she kept the blade extended to him.

“No,” Jaime said, an edge of finality in his tone as he lifted his hand and gently pushed the hilt of the blade she was extending to him to the side. “I will not spar with you.” Ayleth’s petite nostrils flared slightly, eyes growing large and slightly watery as she watched him silently for a few moments. Jaime merely watched her, growing less angry by the moment, and more embarrassed and solemn. The woman drew in a deep breath of air and threw the sparring blades unceremoniously to the ground with a loud clatter.

“So, you’re giving up? Just like that?” She asked him in a calm voice that betrayed how she looked, hands clenching into fists at her sides as she stared up at him with a wild gleam in her eyes.

“I will never be what I once was, Ayleth,” Jaime said in a soft tone, swallowing hard as his eyes darted between both of hers. “I will not let you see me like this.”

“You will never know unless you try. I will not judge you for it,” she told him, taking another step forward and looking up at him, barely any space between the two of them. Jaime may have had an inch or two on Ayleth height-wise, but right now he felt smaller than a mouse.  

“No,” he continued, his voice faltering slightly, “I will not spar with you.” Ayleth lifted a hand and Jaime braced himself for her to slap him, punch him, hit him. But she merely looked away from him, clenching her hand into a fist and bringing it to her mouth as she stalked away from him.

“This is not the man my father knighted,” she said darkly, keeping her back to him as she stopped in front of a small table to the side of the room, fingertips resting on the wooden surface.

“That man is long gone, Ayleth,” Jaime said in a low voice, keeping his eyes on her back. He watched as she spun to face him, eyes wandering over him before she turned back around and slowly walked up to him with her arms crossed over her chest. She stopped in front of him once more, tilting her head to the side.

“I can see him. He’s still there somewhere. We just have to dig him out from the hole he was put in,” she said softly. “Sword hand gone or not. That was not the only hand you have. I learned to fight with both of my hands, as did my father. You can learn to fight with the only hand you have left.” Jaime grit his teeth once more, jaw grinding beneath his skin. “You may not think it possible, Ser Jaime, but I do. And I will not allow you to leave this room until you at least try. I will not accept this defeated demeanor.” Jaime finally glared down at her, feeling angry with the situation he had been shoved into.

“Stop this, Ayleth,” he warned through a tight jaw, his eyes cold and cutting. 

“No, I will not,” she retorted, poking a finger in his chest and raising her voice slightly, “I am going to teach you how to fight back and defend yourself, Ser Jaime.”

“And what if I do not want you to?” He growled, eyes flashing as she took another step toward him. He batted away her hand as gently as he could and still prove a point.

Her eyes merely darted between both of his, looking every bit of the dangerous woman that she was. Her slender arms were crossed over her chest, standing to her full height as she studied him. 

“Aren’t you angry, Ser Jaime? Angry with the men who held you captive? Angry with the man that took your hand from you,” she asked, upper lip curling slightly as she spoke. “I am. I am furious with them. You know why? Because they knew _exactly_ what they were doing. A knight is only as good as the way he wields a weapon. They sentenced you to a fate that would be worse than death to a knight, Ser Jaime.” Her eyes grew watery once more as she grew silent. She drew in a deep breath of air, lowering her gaze before she continued to speak. “That is why I asked you to come here tonight. I wanted to prove to them that they cannot kill the lion’s spirit in you. I wanted to help you learn how to fight again.” Her voice had begun to quiver and she let out a heavy sigh.

Jaime felt his anger dissipating as he stared at the woman, expression relaxing into one of slight awe the more she spoke. Again, she sounded like her father, her keen mind working its way past his emotions and reasoning with him. He suddenly felt very foolish for acting the way he had, especially when she was only trying to aid him without judgement. And she was right, being that she fought with both hands, she probably was the best person to help him learn how to fight again. She turned and walked away from him once more, pausing as she reached the center of the room.

“I would not judge you if you failed. I would not judge you if you got angry with yourself. It will not be easy for you to regain the use of a sword,” she continued softly, not bothering to look at him. “But if you wanted to leave, I will not stop you. But you will let them win if you walk out that door: the men who took your hand, the men who doubt your ability to fight and defend. And if you let them win, Ser Jaime, the man my father thought so highly of is truly gone…and so is that lion’s spirit I saw in you so long ago.”

The blonde knight merely stared at her back, determination rising within him. He glanced down to the blades she had thrown down and crouched down, grabbing both blades in one hand and quietly stepping over to the woman. She turned as he approached, glancing over her shoulder at him before fully turning to him. The smallest hint of a smile curled her lips as she took the blade from his hand, their fingers brushing together as she did. She placed the sword in her left hand, weighting the sword in her grasp as Jaime did the same. The sword felt foreign in his hand, like it didn't belong there, and he knew it was something he was going to have to get past if he ever wanted to fight again.

“I’m going to take it easy on you for now, Ser Jaime,” she said softly, looking up at him. “We’re going to work at building strength in your arm and wrist first, then focus on blocking and defending.” She motioned for him to follow her into the center of the room. The woman stepped past him and stopped, tucking her free arm behind her back and raising the sword in her other hand.

Jaime lifted his sword, watching her with a wrinkled brow. The sword weighed heavy in his grasp, his wrist felt weak as the blade pulled down on it. “What are you doing?” He asked, noticing her arm behind her back.

“Fighting you on even ground,” she told him without missing a beat. He stared at her for a moment, expression smoothing as he saw the smallest bit of a smile curl her lips. “Remember, Ser Jaime,” she continued, “I am here to help you. I promise not to think less of you if you fail, or judge you.” She took her stance and Jaime took his, keeping their eyes on each other for who would make the first movie.

Jaime took the initiative and swung his sword first. Their swords clashed together, but not nearly with the same force he used to swing a blade with. The vibration of metal against metal shook down the hilt of the blade and rattled his bones. He grit his teeth against the foreign feeling, shooting her a look as he steeled himself.

“Good,” Ayleth said softly, before swinging her blade and letting it crash against Jaime’s. His hand shook yet again as the sparring blades struck once more, the vibrations feeling even worse when she hit his blade. Jaime was quick to strike again, trying to strike as hard as he possibly could. He was determined to regain his strength, to be able to fight and defend once more. “Again,” she said with a nod.

They sparred with each other for hours, eventually moving on to blocking and upping the pace at which they swung at each other. Jaime’s arm ached from wrist to the crook of his neck and it was all he could do to keep a grip on his sword. He was getting angry with himself, gritting his teeth against the rising pain, insecurity, and fear that he’d never be able to handle a sword again. 

Ayleth swung a strong blade against his and it rattled his hand so much that his tired fingers dropped the blade and it clattered to the ground. Jaime watched it for a moment, noticing that the woman had taken a few steps back and was still gripping her sword tightly. His nostrils flared in anger and his hand clenched at his side.

“Pick it up,” she commanded, nodding toward it and taking her stance once more. Jaime sighed heavily and ran his shaking hand through his hair. His bones felt hollow, his muscles and tendons were screaming, and his shoulder had gone stiff. 

“I’m done,” he told her, clenching his jaw and shaking his head slowly, “for good.” Ayleth’s violet eyes flashed and she dropped her stance, stepping over to him and lifting the blade from the floor.

“No, you’re not. You’re doing fine,” she said as she picked the sparring blade from the floor and extended it to Jaime. “You’ll never make any progress if you don’t push yourself.” Her eyes locked on his, watching as his face crumbled and he turned, without a word, and started toward the door. She watched his back for a moment before she dropped the swords and stomped after him.

By the time she reached him, he had the latch of the door undone and the door pulled open slightly. She reached around him and closed the door, redoing the latch. Jaime spun and looked down at her; she could easily see that he was furious with her, but she wasn’t afraid of him.

“Let me leave the room, Ayleth,” he said, fighting to keep his voice calm. She set her shoulders as she looked up at him, eyes burning into his.

“I am not about to let you live the rest of your life with this kind of attitude,” she told him in a stern voice, taking a step closer to him, their chests almost touching. “You’re making progress and I can see promise in you,” she continued before falling quiet, her mouth set into a firm line. Jaime felt angry words climbing up the back of his throat, threatening to spill from his lips and cut the woman in front of him down. She was making him stare his self-doubt in the eyes and it left him feeling helpless and uncomfortable.

“Let. me. leave,” Jaime growled, setting a look on his features that dared her to go against him. She merely jutted her chin up at him, crossing her arms over her chest petulantly.

“You’re worth fighting for, Ser Jaime Lannister,” she said, eyes locked on his. “I refuse to let you believe otherwise, so I’m refusing to let you leave this room. Get angry with me if you must—I can take it—but we will keep sparring and I will keep teaching you,” she told him in a low voice that dared him to tell her otherwise. The young lion felt his anger roiling within him and he reached out, all but slapping his good hand around the top of her arm. She did not flinch and she kept a stolid expression as his grip tightened against her skin. There was a sudden shift in the air and the room suddenly felt stifling for the two of them. Ayleth’s mind went to the way his bare skin had felt against hers, the way his hoarse groans sounded, and the way he brought her to the pinnacle of pleasure before artfully pushing her over said pinnacle. That had been ages ago, but she remembered it like it was yesterday. Her lips parted slightly as she watched him, the fire burning in his eyes causing her pulse to race. She watched as those eyes darted over her features, lingering around her mouth, before they darkened slightly and she knew his mind had headed in the same direction hers had.

In a flash, he spun her around and pressed her back against the door. The wooden barrier rattled a bit as he weight fell against it, and she gasped lightly as she kept her eyes on his. His hand slipped down her arm, his grip on it relaxing slightly as he pressed his body flushed against hers. Maybe the rush of desire could be blamed on the anger he had been feeling earlier, perhaps it was the tempting woman before him, or perhaps it was the way she had been so adamant about helping him. His hand slipped from her arm and immediately wrapped around her waist, pulling her body as close as possible to him.

He leaned forward slowly, eyes flickering to her lips before his fell against hers, his mouth finding hers hotly in the dim light of the room. She responded immediately, her arms wrapping around his neck and her body arching against his as she kissed back eagerly. A soft noise left her as his tongue swooped over her bottom lip, mouth parting to let his tongue slip against hers. Heat flashed through them, anger and stubbornness giving away to lust and need. Ayleth’s fingers tangled in Jaime’s hair, pulling the short strands a bit as his other arm slipped against her side. He dipped down for a moment, using his forearm as a brace under her backside and lifting her from the floor. His other arm and hand cradled her back as he pulled her away from the door and her legs locked around his waist.

Jaime carefully made his way to the table, setting her down on the edge of it. With the swipe of his arm, anything on the table crashed to the floor, all without detaching his mouth from hers. Her legs parted even wider and her hands went to his hips, pulling him between them with another soft noise. Her fingers hurriedly went to the tie on his breeches, tugging it loose anxiously. Once she loosened the tie, she pulled away from the kiss, looking up at him with dark violet eyes. She pulled off her boots and tossed them carelessly to the side. He looked down at her, pulse and breath racing as she pushed down her breeches and left them in a bunch on the floor. Jaime’s eyes wandered over her exposed skin, hand coming to rest on her thigh as she pushed down his breeches to his knees.

This went on for the next couple of nights; Jaime would come to Ayleth’s room. They would spar, one of them would get mad and the other tried to calm the other or leave the room altogether, and they shed their clothes; though most of the time, they didn’t even bother with removing them completely. And with every night that passed, Jaime became a little more confident that he could learn to fight with his good hand. Ayleth was helping him return to the man he had once been and he had been sure to keep reminding her how thankful he was she was helping him. Every night, he realized he enjoyed Ayleth’s company and Ayleth’s unease with Kings Landing was slowly dissipating the more time she spent with the knight. In the breaks they took in between sparring and making love, they spoke of many things, getting to know each other better. Ayleth had inherited her father's quick wit and Jaime was every bit of the man her father had told and written to her; he was a strong-willed, bull-headed man, yes, but he had been nothing but kind and gentle with her, at least outside of their sparring. Smiles and laughter came easy to them and both of them forgot the war that raged around them when they were closed away in that room.

That was, until the royal wedding happened. The death of the young King Joffrey came to a great shock to everyone Oberyn had brought with him the Kings Landing. Ayleth had been close enough to the Royal table see just how Joffrey had died, how long he gasped for air, choking on seemingly nothing, and it was a death she would only wish for the most despicable of people. She supposed Joffrey had done something or was about to do something that would make someone very upset with him. Still, she had watched as the life left his body, her own body gone cold with the sight of it all. To say Kings Landing was in shambles after the death of the king, would be an understatement. Tyrion Lannister had been accused of killing Joffrey and now sat imprisoned and Sansa Stark, his wife, was no where to be found. Many thought she had something to do with the death as well.

After she met with Oberyn and Ellaria, to discuss what they had seen and what their presence in Kings Landing would mean in such a time, Ayleth stole away to her room with a couple of carafes of Dornish red. Her door was left unlatched, by habit now, since she allowed Jaime into her room every night. She sat on a small chaise in a dark corner of the room, watching through the open window as the full moon rose over Blackwater Bay. The goblet of wine never left her hand all evening as the she-warrior from Starfall, the true Sword of the Morning, was left alone with her thoughts.

She was well into her cups by the time her door opened and she wasn’t exactly sure how late it was. All she knew was that her body was more than warmed with the wine, her nose and lips numbed, and it must have been very early in the morning. Her amethyst eyes slid over to the door, bare feet slipping from the chaise to rest on the floor as she placed her goblet to the side. To her relief, it was only one of the Kingsguard, and Ser Jaime Lannister at that. He swiftly stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, sliding the latch into place. He was still dressed in his Kingsguard regalia, all white and gold, and Ayleth was still dressed in the rich purple gown she’d worn to the wedding. It was made of a thicker fabric than she was used to and had sleeves that came to her elbows. It was overlaid with a thin, transparent, and dark silvery fabric that had been embroidered with delicate designs, swirling into shooting stars ever so often. A metal belt wrapped around her midsection, a crafted shooting star and sword melded to it, off-centered and poised just above her right hip crease.

Ayleth watched Jaime with eyes rimmed heavily with black makeup, a trick Ellaria had taught her, and it made the violet hues of her eyes shine even brighter. He stepped into the room, looking haggard, tired, yet sleepless. She had seen the pain on his face as he watched Joffrey die and there was nothing to be done for it. She was then reminded that Joffrey was also his nephew, so not only did a King die under his watch, but a family member as well.

“I am afraid I am not in the mood to spar tonight, Ser Jaime,” she said softly as he stopped at the table just beside the chaise she was sitting it. He looked down at her, the look in his eyes telling her that he was not here to spar. They locked eyes for a few moments before Jaime looked away, grabbing one of her empty goblets and filling it with her wine without a word. A frown pulled at Ayleth’s lips as she watched him grab the goblet and tip it back, draining it completely. Slowly, she stood up, taking a step to him, remarkably steady on her feet for how much wine she’d had. He placed the goblet back on the table and rested his hands on the surface, both his golden hand and good hand. His eyes fell to the surface, gaze lifeless. She tentatively rested a hand on his back, wanting nothing more than to ease his mind. He still did not look at her and her chest gave a small twinge of hurt for him.

For a few quiet moments, the only sound in the room was the sound of the soft breeze that blew in through her open window. And in those few moments, neither of them moved; Jaime’s eyes were still directed at the table and Ayleth was watching him with an expression that clearly read as concern.

“Jaime?” she breathed, finally lifting her other hand and placing it on his jaw. Gently, she turned his head to face her and her eyes met his. She let out a soft sigh when she saw the look he wore. He was a man haunted and his eyes looked lost and forlorn. Ayleth leaned in a bit closer, thumb brushing softly against his skin. “I do not know who is to blame for what happened today, but I am sorry,” she said, her voice never rising above a whisper. Jaime merely swallowed hard, eyes slipping between both of hers. He looked away and her hand slipped from his cheek as he poured himself another glass of wine and drained it just as quickly. A heavy sign left the woman again as she watched him. 

His eyes closed for a moment and when he opened them, he turned them to the woman beside him. Jaime watched her for a few moments, lifting his good hand and brushing a fingertip across the deep furrow between her brow; one of the many signs of concern on her features. Her eyes fluttered shut at the feel of it, lips relaxing from the thin, firm line they had been set in, and her expression smoothing out slowly. His hand found her jaw, cradling her cheek in his hand. She lifted her hand to brace the warmth of it against her skin, eyes remaining shut.

“I never got the chance to tell you how beautiful you looked at the wedding,” he said in a soft voice; it was low and gravelly, like he hadn’t spoken in a few hours. Ayleth’s eyes blinked open and the smallest bit of a smile curled the corners of the lips that Jaime had come to know so well. “How beautiful you’ve always looked, Ayleth,” he added through a sigh, shaking his head a bit. Her fingertips traced the back of the fingers held against her cheek, eyes locked on his. She supposed this was his way of telling her he didn’t want to talk about the events of the day; he wanted to steal away in her room to get his mind off of things, to be distracted, if only for a few hours.

“And I have never told you how much the color gold suits you, gold and white,” she said, lifting her other hand to rest on his breastplate. “You are, truthfully, the most handsome man I have ever laid eyes on, but particularly when you are wearing the color gold.” A short lived grin curled his lips as he looked away for a brief moment before bringing his eyes back to hers. His mouth felt dry, even though he knew more about her more than ever, and he swallowed hard and licked his lips to try and bring back the moisture in his mouth.

“May I tell you something, Ayleth,” he breathed, eyes never leaving hers. Her brow quirked slightly in curiosity and she nodded a few times. “I don’t know if I would have told you this if it weren’t for what happened today, but it’s something I think you should know.”

“Of course, Ser Jaime,” she said, her voice quiet as her eyes roamed over his features. The man paused for a few moments before drawing in a deep breath of air, not knowing how she would take what he was about to say.

“When I was recovering from…” he started, his voice dying off as he failed to find a delicate string of words for what he wanted to say. Instead, he lifted his golden hand and Ayleth’s eyes darted over to it briefly before meeting his once more and she gave a small nod, eyes pleading for him to continue. “You would come to me in my fevered sleep. Rot and infection had set in, you see, and fever makes a man imagine the strangest things,” he said, her expression remaining as passive as ever as she listened. “Your fingertips were like a cool rush of river water over my warm forehead. The scent of lavender always surrounded me, calming me, even in my sleep. You pleaded with me to pull through; to fight and to live.” By now, Ayleth’s lips hard parted slightly, her eyes looking large and watery. He looked away from her for a moment, mouth shutting before finishing with, “I could have been put through so much worse in my dreams, with what atrocities I have seen, but I believe I have you…or the bit of you my mind gave me in my sleep…to thank for getting me through those long nights when I didn't know if I’d be killed before morning.”

Large tears rolled down Ayleth’s cheeks as he finished his confession; be it the amount of wine she had imbibed of or the tone of voice he was using as the cause. His fingertips glided across the wet skin, wiping the tears away to only find them replaced by more tears. “Ever since I’ve met you, Ayleth, I’ve questioned whether you were real or if you were just some figment of my dreams,” he whispered.

“Jaime…I-I…” Ayleth started, eyes slipping between his as she found herself at a loss for words. She paused for the longest time, not knowing what to say and knowing that if she said anything, it may prove to be too much for the two of them. She took long enough to do anything that Jaime was worried he had frightened her and that at any moment she could ask him to leave the room. Instead of speaking, she leaned forward and pressed her mouth fully against his without much warning. Jaime sighed softly against the kiss, arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her against him. Ayleth figured she’d let the kiss convey her response to what Jaime had told her. Her hands went to his jaw, cradling his face as she leaned into him.

This time, Ayleth took the time to carefully remove Jaime’s armor, setting aside in order so he could easily put it back on. Jaime was resolute in getting Ayleth out of her dress without her help. It took him a bit of time, but he managed to get her down to bare skin. She lead him over to the bed, where they made love multiple times, even though they were both exhausted. Their minds were temporary removed from the troubles of the day and they could just focus on each other. 

When they were finished, Jaime fell asleep, head resting on Ayleth’s chest and his arm draped loosely over her midsection. Ayleth, however, remained awake; the numbness from the wine had worn off and her mind was racing once more. She merely had her arms around him, eyes tracing over what she could see of him as he slept soundly. As she memorized how he looked in that moment, her mind wandered to what would happen to them all in the coming days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed and thanks for reading. I haven't finished and fine-tuned the last chapter yet, so it may take a little longer to get out, but I've got a good majority of it writing. Let me know what you guys think of this series so far!


	3. Chapter 3

“Please, Oberyn, see reason in what I am saying,” Ayleth pleaded with the Dornish prince as they made their way to the small area they would be holding the trial by combat in. Ayleth’s heart was in her throat, her mind was racing, and every inch of her body was screaming for it all to stop. “Please let me fight for you, Oberyn. I am sworn to protect you and I cannot do that if you willingly throw yourself into the pit with the Mountain,” she continued, eyes wide and begging. Ellaria was just behind the two of them, looking just about as nervous as Ayleth felt.

Oberyn surprised them both when he stopped and looked back at Ayleth, resolution set in those dark brown eyes of his as they swung between his paramour and his warrior woman. It was then that Ayleth knew there would be no reasoning with the man in front of her. He wanted blood. He wanted revenge. And he would have it, one way or another.

“I will not fail this day. The Mountain will fall and I will have my vengeance,” he said in a soft, stern voice. Ayleth merely stared up at him, clearly distressed, before he turned and they continued on their way. Ellaria and Ayleth shared a worried glance before following after their Prince; he fought for his sister and her children and there would be no stopping him. 

The sun immediately beamed down upon them as they exited the Red Keep and walked toward the amphitheater the trial would be held in. Nobles were already in their places to watch the trial, their red and gold a stark contrast to the deep blue of Blackwater Bay that lay just beyond the cliffside. In fact, Oberyn, Ellaria, and Ayleth seemed to be swarmed in a sea of red and gold; Ellaria and Oberyn were wearing dark, earthy orange and Ayleth in her dark violet and silvery gunmetal. Oberyn was in leather armor, as he prided himself on being agile and quick; not sticking around enough to get hit or bothering with heavy metal armor. Ayleth wore something similar, both of her swords at her sides as she marched behind Oberyn and Ellaria. 

Her armor fit in a high collar around her neck, the front chest pieces layered to look like the underbelly of a snake; to show her support of the Red Viper. The pauldrons were sharp and angular as they capped her shoulders, and the majority of the rest of the armor fit her like a glove and showed off the curves of her womanly figure without exposing skin. She wore a metal belt around her waist, thick enough to protect the vital organs of her stomach should they need protecting. Two silvery bracers in the same gunmetal tone wrapped her forearms, the rest of her arms lay bare. Her hands were wrapped a couple of times with a strip of black suede; the same fabric as her boots and breeches. Half of her hair was pulled back by a series of braids, a small, metal ornamental viper binding the braids together. Her sword, Dawn, hung at one of her sides, sheathed, and another double-edged blade hung at the other.

The crowd hushed as the three stepped over to a tent off to the side, eyes studying and sizing the three. Ayleth let her eyes wander over them for a moment before she looked over at Oberyn. She stepped over to him and strapped his leather pauldrons onto his armor, acting as if a squire would, eyes never leaving him. He was watching her just as closely before he managed a smile for her, cupping her chin in his hand before letting his hand drop to his side.

“I will be fine, my Sword of the Morning,” he murmured, clasping a hand on her shoulder and gripping it for a moment. There was another hush of the crowd as Tyrion was presented to them all, manacled, and he took his spot beside the tent. Ayleth’s eyes went to the man before turning back to Oberyn. He nodded once and turned to Ellaria and Ayleth turned away, to provide them as much of a moment alone as she could as he grasped a goblet of wine and downed it. As her eyes roamed the crowd, Cersei Lannister, Twyin Lannister, Mace Tyrell, and a few other in the royal court that Ayleth dared not look at were already seated in the Royal Booth. She could hear Tyrion and Oberyn exchanging words, but Ayleth’s mind was far too worried to listen in.

Jaime stepped into the royal booth a bit later, wearing gold, and it drew Ayleth’s attention far away from the small amphitheater the Viper and the Mountain were to spar in. Her eyes locked on Jaime as the Kingsguard and Lannister men took spots in front of the fighting grounds and royal booth. His eyes flittered over her, lingering on the woman briefly before she followed his gaze to Tyrion. She knew he was fighting to look passive, to remain unconcerned, but she could see it, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. The noise from the crowd picked up as the Mountain stepped into the amphitheater and Ayleth watched him carefully. He was a large man, much larger than Oberyn was, and Ayleth went cold at the sight of him.

Grand Maester Pycelle stepped in front of the crowd with a herald of trumpets, speaking to them about the reason they were here. Ayleth couldn’t hear what he was saying, her pulse was rushing in her ears like a thousand war drums as she watched the Mountain. The Maester’s speech was cut short with another rise of trumpets and Ayleth risked another glance at Jaime. He was staring openly at her now and she was sure he could see just how worried she was. She blew out a sharp breath of air as she heard the hiss of a blade being pulled from a sheath and her eyes found the Mountain once more as he studied his blade before marching proudly into the ring.

Oberyn lifted his lance and stepped into the ring, swinging the lance in quick circles, spinning in agile pirouettes around the Mountain before stopping and facing the crowd. Ayleth knew that Oberyn was ever the showman and was proud of his quick striking skills with the lance. She also knew that this would not be a match easily won with a lance, not with the Mountain’s broadsword and sheer size.

Over the noise of the crowd, Ayleth could hear Oberyn speaking to the Mountain, not being able to pick up what he was saying. Her eyes risked a glance to Jaime as he kept his eyes on the match, a confident grin curling his lips but only just slightly. He obviously thought Oberyn had a chance at defeating the Mountain after seeing the show he put on. Ayleth knew he had a chance as well, but the Mountain also was a skilled fighter and did not look like a man who fought fairly. 

In what would seem to be a sour turn of events, the Mountain shattered Oberyn’s lance and the Dornish prince was quick to seek a replacement. Ayleth stepped over to the rack holding a few more and lifted one. She knew Oberyn was a keen man and would be able to find a way back over to the tent. He kept his eyes on the Mountain as he circled by her and she tossed him another. Oberyn caught it deftly and immediately went back to fight with the Mountain, brandishing the lance proudly.

All the air felt like it had left her lungs and she rested a shaking hand above her sternum as she fought to draw in as much air as she could. Normal, she would not have allowed herself to show such emotion, such distress, but with her Prince fighting a man like the Mountain and more than one life at stake if he should fall, she could not help but be anxious. She believed Lord Tyrion innocent and his intelligence and sharp tongue would be a terrible thing to be lost.

Finally, after what seemed like the longest few moments in Ayleth’s life, Oberyn swung a hit that staggered the Mountain, followed by another. By now, she could clearly hear what he was chanting above the noise of the crowd. “You raped her!” He yelled finally and Ayleth went still, stomach in knots and chest weighed down. He was angry and it was all she could do to pray that it did not cloud his mind or judgement. “You murdered her!” He continued as he seemingly gained the upper hand as he landed a slice of his lance’s blade across the back of the Mountain’s calf and it brought the large man to his knees. Oberyn circled around him, now looking furious. With a leap toward the man, he yelled, “You killed her children!” The lance pierced through the Mountain’s armor and the man spat blood.

Ayleth felt a sense of pride swell in her chest, though she immediately chastised herself for it. This fight would not be over until the Mountain drew his last breath. Finally forcing a full breath into her lungs, she steeled herself for what she hoped would be Oberyn’s final blow. However, it seemed like he had intended on toying with the Mountain before ending him. Ayleth squeezed her eyes shut as she heard Oberyn speaking to the man once more, wanting to yell out for him to finish it beyond nothing else. He had a chance to kill and he should not be hesitating so. Oberyn’s hand pointed to Tywin as he spoke before he yelled out, for all to clearly hear, “Who gave you the order?!”

He circled the Mountain, like a hawk with prey, and spoke, “Say her name! Say it!” His eyes found Ellaria’s from his position, then they darted over the Ayleth, the smile proud on his lips. “Say it!” He yelled once more before the Mountain took a swipe at the back of Oberyn’s leg and knocked him off of his feet. In that moment, Ayleth’s fear gave way to anger, anxiety turning to an unyielding instinct to protect. Her hands found the pommel of her blades as the Mountain lifted Oberyn by his neck and landed a punch to his mouth that had blood and teeth scattering toward herself and Ellaria like pebbles. Instead of striding out in to the arena, however, like she so desperately wanted to, she forced herself to stay in her place, knowing there was nothing she could do now.

And as the Mountain pinned Oberyn down with his massive body and his thumbs found Oberyn’s eyes, Ayleth knew the Prince’s fate was sealed. The Mountain was speaking to Oberyn as he screamed and writhed under the man, hands grasping desperately at the Mountain’s wrists as more pressure was applied, blood pouring from his eyes. Oberyn kicked, hands spasming and pounding at the Mountain’s. “And then I smashed her head in, like this!” Was all Ayleth heard before the sickening crunch and squelch silenced all around her for a moment and all she saw was red as Oberyn’s skull caved in under the beast of a man’s grasp. 

It was all red; her Prince’s blood on the ground, the nobles in the stands, the Red Keep, Cersei’s lips as they pulled back into a proud smile, and, most of all, her anger. She could not hear the bloodcurdling, heart-wrenching scream that flew from Ellaria or the crowd as they both cheered and booed. All she heard was her quick, drumming pulse in her ears, calling her to battle for one of two men that had ever made a bastard like her feel like she had a place in the world. She kept her eyes on the splatter of blood, brain matter, and skull that lay under the Mountain before he collapsed to the side. He would die, as Oberyn always tainted his blade with a viper’s venom, but he would not die soon enough for Ayleth’s liking. Her body trembled, her jaw was clenched tight, and tears that she was too numb to feel made their way down her cheeks. She had made sure her blades were sharp enough for what she was about to do.

“The gods have made their will…” was all Tywin Lannister could get out as he stood in the Royal Booth, before the words died in his throat as a bastard woman, a warrior woman, dressed all in purple and silver, made her way into the arena unannounced and unwelcome. The roar of the crowd died down as Ayleth of Starfall, bastard of Ser Arthur Dayne, delivered her own form of justice—as only a true Sword of the Morning could. She pulled a single blade from it’s sheath, Dawn, as she stepped to the two men, boots clacking ominously and hard against the stone beneath her feet and the blade singing at her side. The iridescent veining of the fallen meteorite metal gleamed in the sunlight, beckoning respect and attention, and whispers broke out amongst the nobles; the had not previously been aware the Sword of the Morning stood in front of them and was a woman at that. She could not hear them over the sound of her own heart, her body shaking angrily. Pulling her eyes from what was Oberyn, her venomous violet stare fell to the Mountain. As she circled around him, she paused for only a moment before bringing her blade down as hard as she could, with both hands gripping the blade tightly, on his thick neck before he could react. She felt the skin, cartilage, bone, and sinew yield to her blade, like slicing through water, before it struck the stone beneath it hard. Blood splattered against her front, up her face, and wetted the front of her suede breeches.

The blade rattled from her bloodied grasp but she was quick to straddle the Mountain’s chest as she pulled a long dagger from her boot. With her other hand, she clawed at the short hair on the Mountain’s head, lifting it and flinging it hard to the side as if it would reattach to the monster of a man she had killed if she did not separate the two. Blood spun out from the severed neck as it rolled away from them, painting the area more red by the minute. By the time her knees hit the ground on either side of what used to be Gregor Clegane, her blade had plunged into his chest. Ayleth was determined to make sure the man was dead. A yell left her as she lifted the blade and dug it into his chest cavity over and over again with sharp hollow thuds. Blood was flying everywhere, staining her pale skin red, her armor, and hair a darker shade of black. The yell was that of a warrior coming to avenge a great wrong—a warrior who had been wounded deeply and sought revenge. It was a yell directed at the dead man beneath her, all her anger leaving her in a guttural shout that echoed harshly against the amphitheater walls and rattled in her throat and lungs. The noise died in her throat as she lost grip on her dagger, hands drenched with thick red blood that spread out from Gregor Clegane like a blossoming flower of death.

Hands grasped roughly and hard at her arms before she knew it and she was pulled her feet. She looked up for the first time to meet the surprised, awe-stricken, and angered faces of those in the Royal Booth. Before Tywin could get out a single word, Ayleth spoke in a loud, clear voice that all could hear, “What do the gods say now?” The rattle of armor surrounded her as all looked to Tywin for what his decree would be, the Lannister men had reacted quickly, she supposed. The Old Lion looked like he had swallowed something bitter, eyes cutting into Ayleth from afar. He paused, weighing what he should do, before his nostrils flared. As he opened his mouth to speak, Ayleth repeated her words, even louder, “What do the gods say now?!”

She was met with a fist to the face that had her head snapping to the side and blood quickly filling her mouth. Her head reeled with the hard blow, the metal of a bracer striking hard against her jaw, and a few gasps left the crowd around her. As she returned her gaze to Tywin, she noticed he looked angrier than ever and there was nothing more in her life she had ever been more proud of. She spat blood to the ground, her gaze darkly cutting into his.

“To the Black Cells with you, for interfering with a trial and heresy,” he commanded and those rough hands of the Kingsguard and knights tugged her away. Her eyes slid down the line of men in the Royal Booth before landing on Jaime at the end. His lips were parted slightly with shock, brow furrowed slightly, and worry tainted his gaze now more than ever. The look in his eyes as he watched her being dragged away was something that she would never forget.

 

The Black Cells were frigidly cold and dimly lit, but he was sure the cells were pitch black. Jaime carried a torch that pushed the inky darkness back just a bit, making sure his steps were not being followed as he cradled a bowl of warm water and a rag in the other. He paused outside of one of two cells he knew to be currently occupied and pulled open a little window to peer inside of one of the cells. Through the darkness, he could make out the slender form of a woman, laying on her side on the cool, damp floor and his chest tightened abruptly at the sight of her.

And to think, at some point in the trial by battle, Jaime had been foolish enough to think that Oberyn was going to beat the Mountain and his younger brother would be freed and innocent in the eyes of the gods. The tenured knight had seen some gruesome deaths in his lifetime, but he did not believe any were as horrible as the one Oberyn Martell had been given. And then, as if to add insult to injury, he watched as the dark-haired woman he’d spent every night with since he had known she’d arrived in Kings Landing, step boldly into the fighting ring. His heart clenched in his chest and he sat perched on the edge of his seat and she beheaded the Mountain and enacted her revenge on the man, unable to yell for her to stop or prevent her from doing what she did.

They had often talked, before Jaime left for the night or they lapsed into sleep, about how close she was with Oberyn; she’d been honest and said he was an occasional lover of hers, but their relationship was more akin to a brother and sister than anything. It did not take long for Jaime to realize that in Oberyn, Ayleth had found a sibling that she never had, what Alastair should have been to her. He only had to glance at her once to see the resolute, teeth-gnashing anger that tore at her at the death of someone who had been so dear to her.What she had done was foolish and rash, something that was unexpected of someone who normally kept such a keen, rational mind about things, but Jaime couldn’t blame her for her actions or the words she had spoken. For the faith that most put in the Seven, they had not been kind to Jaime and they certainly hadn’t been kind to Tyrion or Ayleth. There was a creeping anxiety, however, that her actions would end up with her beheaded with Tyrion.

Jaime glanced both ways down he long corridor of cells before opening up the door to her cell and stepping inside. He left the door slivered behind him, not open enough to immediately catch someone’s eyes, but open enough for him to leave quickly if need be. He set the torch in a holder by the door, glancing over to the woman who lay crumpled on the floor. All the air felt like it was pushed from his lungs as his eyes met angry purple and red bruises on the back of her arms. Her black hair was mussed and matted with blood and the back of her neck looked bruised and splattered with blood and dirt as well.

He took a few steps over to her, shifting the steaming bowl of water in his other arm, a bit of pride in the fact he’d be able to carry it without dropping it.

“Ayleth?” He whispered tentatively, afraid of what she had been put through prior to being locked in this cell. A beautiful woman like her would be seen as easy prey and the warrior in her would be seen like something to be broken; a challenge over-all. The knight swallowed hard as Ayleth made no motion to look over at him—the only movement from her was the slow rise and fall of her ribcage and her shivering from the cold. He knelt to the ground beside her, placing the bowl of water to the side and quickly unclasping the black cloak he’d hidden beneath and pulled it over her. “Ayleth,” he repeated, gently reaching out and placing his hand on her arm. The woman did not flinch under his grasp and still did not move when he gently rolled her over onto her back.

Hollow, violet eyes flashed up to meet his and he drew in a sharp breath of air when he saw the condition of her lovely face. Her skin was caked with blood in spots, light splatters of it in other places, and not much of her skin was showing. Her lips were swollen and split in multiple places, her blood staining her skin darker in small tendrils of brown-red that spread downward from the lacerations on her lips and each of her nostrils. One of her eyes was blackened completely, the white of that eye an angry red color and her cheekbone and brow swollen. Lumps had formed on her forehead and jaw, an area of bright white skin stretched out and circled with a violent splattering of dark red and purple. Her knuckles were scraped, nearly skinned to the bones by the looks of it, and Jaime wondered just how much of a fight this woman put up against the guards that brought her here. Jaime wondered if they had tried to do anything to her that would force her to fight.

Without a word, he lifted her back to rest on his folded legs, his arm cradling her head as her eyes studied him closely. She leaned against him, arms resting limply at her sides, as he leaned over and dipped the clean rag into the water with his good hand. He squeezed the water from the fabric and went to lift it to her forehead, intending on getting her as cleaned up as he could. Just before the rag hit the skin, she lifted her hand and stopped him, pulling his hand to the side so she could properly look up at him. Jaime noticed her hands were stained brown with cracked blood that was not her own and it had begun to flake away in spots.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she murmured darkly, swallowing hard to whet her throat. Jaime’s brows lifted slightly as she spoke and he sighed heavily. “The trouble you could get in-”

“Fuck whatever trouble I could get it,” he retorted, clearly catching Ayleth off guard with his words from the slight widening of her eyes. “I can honestly tell you that I care not if I go against my father or sister’s wishes. I could lose a sibling come tomorrow because of them.” _And you_ , he wanted to tack on, but he couldn’t bring himself to.

Sorrow flashed in Ayleth’s eyes and they grew a bit watery. Jaime chose to ignore the look she was sending him and lifted the rag in his hand to brush away the blood and dirt from her skin, but again he was stopped by her hand. This time, her fingertips had limply clasped around his wrist and her violet eyes were regarding him with a careful look.

“Why are you doing this?” She asked softly, her voice low and raspy and her jaw tight from what Jaime presumed was pain. Her eyes darted between both of his as he sighed softly.

“Because I am tired of obeying orders that go against what is right and honorable,” he told her truthfully. “I am tired of watching people trying to make some good in this world end up being spat on and killed for it,” he continued, jaw setting for a moment before another sigh left him. “Or, if you would prefer, I owe you a few debts,” he said, eyes locked on hers. “One for teaching me that I may not be useless with a sword after all. Another for coming to the defense of Tyrion today at the trial—even if that was not your intention, I saw it as thus. And lastly…for being a tender and kind voice in a time when I needed a friend.”

Ayleth let go of his wrist and her hand rested on her chest, arm curled against her side, fingers and hand relaxed. Tears were cutting streaks through the dried blood, exposing the pale skin beneath it, and her eyes had fluttered shut. Jaime chose to ignore it once more, figuring if he brought attention to her tears, it would only make matters worse. The woman he cradled was clearly in pain; physically, emotionally, and mentally. She was breaking, if she had not already broken. Without another word, Jaime tenderly began to try and wash her face off as much as possible. As the rag hit a few more of the tender spots, he felt her tense slightly and the softest bit of a noise leave her.

Though it was slow work, Jaime eventually cleaned her skin the best he could and it was then he realized just how bad some of the bruises on her face were. He placed the now filthy rag he had used to clean her skin back into the bowl and Ayleth slowly sat up, wincing hard as she moved. Jaime’s hand went to her back, lest she fall backwards, as she curled her stiff legs to the side. When she finally righted herself, her hands slipped to his jaw, eyes slowly tracing his features. His hand went to one of hers, thumb venturing gently over her tender knuckles.

“I begged him to let me fight today. To protect him and Tyrion from death,” she started softly, swallowing hard at the look in Jaime’s eyes.

“You would have died, Ayleth,” he murmured and the woman let out a sharp hiss of air.

“Better a bastard than a Prince or a Lord, Jaime,” she all but growled out.

“Don’t say that,” Jaime rebutted with a certain edge of sternness in his tone, his emerald eyes burning into her violet. Ayleth remained quiet for a while before licking her dry lips as tentatively as she could lest she tear open the thin cuts in her lips.

“Anyone could easily see that your brother is an innocent man; if not the day of the wedding, the trial was enough to prove that to me. But I know, more than anyone, it is easier to place the blame on someone who is seen as less than others,” she murmured, shaking her head and letting her eyes slip shut with a soft exhale of air. Her thumbs slipped over his jaw, feeling the stubble that lay there and drawing in a deep breath of air. “I failed my Prince today and I more than likely will lose my head for it tomorrow. I am a worthless being.” She was trying to hold it together, to not fall into mourning for the Prince she had sworn her swords to, especially now that she could be joining him in death soon.

“You are a knight and the Sword of the Morning, sworn to protect-”

“Did I protect him, Jaime?” She asked in a whisper, her eyes fluttering open to find his once more. “Did I _really_ do all I could to protect him? He who had done nothing but welcomed me into his home and treated me like an equal—treated me like I wished to be treated for years upon years,” she continued, tears welling in her eyes as she felt the beaten and battered wall she had put up caving in on itself. Jaime was at a loss for words, his thumb just tracing patterns along the back of her hand. “No, I didn’t and his brains and skull were cracked and splattered for all to see. And if you’re wondering if what I did helped with the emptiness I am feeling right now, it didn’t. Oberyn is dead and Tyrion will die regardless of what I did. I guess the only good thing is that my head will soon be removed from my shoulders, so I won’t have to live with this feeling for very much longer,” she murmured darkly.

“Don’t say that,” Jaime growled, bristling at her words, but the anger was quick to dissipate when he noticed her face crumbling.

She pulled her shaking hands from his jaw and covered her face with them, hoarse, tired sobs echoing in the small, damp cell they sat it. Jaime sighed heavily and wrapped his arms around her tenderly, pulling her into his chest and cradling against him tightly. His good hand found the back of her head and he gently brush his fingers through her knotted hair, his lips finding her temple ever so often. He knew that she was a warrior—strong, with skills unparalleled and envied by most men— and knew how to pick and choose when to show emotions, but she was also a woman—strong, with emotions that sometimes presented themselves so intensely that her body would betray her mind. It hurt him to no end to have such a woman such as the beautiful and honorable Ayleth Dayne crumbling in his arms at the death of a friend and her own impending death.

“Ayleth,” Jaime murmured after a while and she pulled back slightly to look up at him. Her eyes were puffy and watery and the skin around them was an angry red, if it wasn’t already bruised. Both of his hands found her jaw, being as tender as he could with his golden hand. She drew in a deep breath of air, leaning into the shining prosthetic hand once more, relishing the cool feel of it against her skin. “I must go,” he continued and he saw her expression threaten to crumble once more and he merely leaned forward, brushing his lips against her tentatively and softly. He felt the woman relax slightly at the featherlight brush of his lips against hers and he pulled away just slightly with a soft sigh, forehead resting against hers.

“I will find a way to help you, to save you. I swear it,” he murmured and her eyes shot open and found his in the dim light of the room. She looked frightened, torn, relieved, and enamored of the man that knelt before her. He pressed his lips to hers once more, this time with a bit more force, and pulled away, standing up quickly. Ayleth mimicked his movements, extending to Jaime the cloak he had draped over her. As he clasped it back around his neck, she lifted the bowl from the floor and handed it over to him, knowing that he couldn’t leave behind any trace that he’d been there.

He turned and started to walk out of the cell and as he lifted the torch from it’s holder beside the door, Ayleth spoke once more. “Don’t get yourself killed on account of me, Jaime,” she said softly, from her spot as she leaned against the wall of her cell. He glanced over his shoulder at her, brow furrowed slightly. “If you die and I live, I will never forgive myself,” she finished. The knight shot her a look over his shoulder and held her eyes for a moment before sweeping out of the cell and plunging the woman into darkness once more.

Ayleth sat slumped against the wall for what seemed like a few lifetimes; withdrawing into her mind to keep herself from collapsing into tears once more. Her body may have been in the Black Cells, but her mind was in Starfall as she remembered it as a child. She was on the shores of the mouth of the Torentine River, listening to the water lapping at the rocky shores and rushing by. For being at such a southern point of Westeros, the water was remarkably cool and Ayleth swam and played in it many times. But now, she was on the shore, the sun beaming down upon her skin, and her toes in the refreshing water. 

The castle at Starfall sat behind her, high up on a plateau beside the river; looming over the rushing waters that tumbled over rapids with it’s dark stone and high towers. It was her childhood home, but the few happy memories she had of it were only the times her father had come to visit her in secret. Her mind lingered on the day Eddard Stark visited them with the grim news that her father had been slain, but quickly moved from those thoughts. She might have no longer mourned the death of her father, but with the brutal murder of Oberyn still so fresh, it may prove to send her spiraling again. 

Somewhere in the distance, in the rear world, she heard the sound of whispered voices over the noise of winds whipping at the outside of the building. Hope blossomed in her chest, but she quickly squelched it. She did not want Jaime to risk his life for hers; she would rather die than have him be killed for her sake. Oberyn had been right. She did love Ser Jaime Lannister, but she knew that it was a love that probably would not be returned. And if it was, they would never be able to act upon it other than their clandestine meetings behind closed doors. The time she had spent with Jaime prior to the wedding had only solidified her feelings for him.

Pushing her mind far away from Kings Landing and the only inhabitant that mattered to her once more, she forced herself to remember the sound of the river, the warm breeze kissing her skin, and the pebbly shore beneath her. She forced herself to remember the smell of the sea, the strong arms of her father as they enclosed her in an embrace, and the sad smiles he used to give her when he’d have to leave. She imagined herself standing up and staring at the other side of the mouth of the Torentine, before slowly wading out into the swift water. Ayleth could hear the sound of the water rushing against her, daring to pull her under.

She heard the snap of the lock on her door slide open and she jumped, eyes flying open and her reverie of her homeland interrupted. The door swung open and she braced herself against the wall, ready for whoever was about to walk through that door. The torch illuminated someone in a black cloak with the hood pulled over there head. Ayleth regarded the form carefully as they set the torch in the holder beside the door and pulled back the hood. Once she caught the glimmer of a golden jerkin and short blonde hair, she blew out a sigh of relief as she pushed herself to her feet.

“Here, I’ve got a few things for you,” Jaime said, as he slipped a large satchel from his shoulder.

“What are you doing? You should be helping your brother, not me,” Ayleth told him, watching as he pulled another black cloak from the satchel and extended it to her.

“Varys will help him escape and I am helping you,” he said, glancing up to her, “but we must hurry.” Ayleth didn’t question him again, not with the pleading look he wore, and took the cloak from him and fastened it around her neck. He leaned down once more and pulled a sheathed sword from the satchel. “I could only managed to find Dawn. I couldn’t get your other sword or dagger,” he said, extending the blade to her, her eyes wandering over the familiar scabbard. She shot Jaime an appreciative look and looped the strap over her shoulder, concealing the recognizable blade beneath the cloak. 

“The other blades don’t matter and are replaceable. Dawn cannot be replaced,” she replied, shaking her head as she looked up at him, managing a small, shaky smile for him.

“We cannot tarry long. Someone will find out that both you and Tyrion are missing and will raise the alarm soon enough,” Jaime said. “Follow me and keep quiet.” He pulled his hood up and Ayleth mimicked the action as they both swept from her cell and out into the long corridor of pitch black rooms. The moonlight cut into the hallway, illuminating it just enough for the two to be able to see exactly where they were headed. 

Ayleth kept her ears piqued for footsteps or voices around them, to be sure they weren’t being followed. Sure, she felt a bit more confident with a blade at her side, especially Dawn, but there were limits to her abilities. She could maybe handle five men with a single blade, and even then that would be testing it. She noted the scabbard of a blade poking at the back of Jaime’s cloak and felt a bit more reassured with him being armed as well. 

She turned a corner and Jaime paused for a moment as they had reached a door. He flattened himself against the wall and Ayleth followed suit, glancing to him for a brief moment before her eyes locked on the door. They listened for a few, still moments before he stepped toward the door and threw it open, Ayleth falling in line behind him, hand resting on the pommel of her blade to fight at a moments notice. 

Getting out of the Red Keep was remarkably easy, but she imagined that Varys and Jaime had discussed the safest paths for their prisoners to take beforehand. Roaming the streets of Kings Landing at night would be a different story. The city was like a labyrinth, one that Ayleth was unfamiliar with, so she was going to have to rely entirely on Jaime. As they crept down the quiet city streets, the tall buildings did nothing to calm her nerves. At some point, Jaime’s hand found hers and held it tightly as the two traveled under the shadow of the the buildings, the city bathed in blue-white light.

Thankfully, they reached the outskirts of the city without a hitch and Jaime had led them to the stables so that Ayleth could take a horse to ease her journey. The city stables were empty of people as the knight and warrior woman made their way through the rows of stalls before Ayleth stopped abruptly in front of one.

“This one is mine,” she said, pulling her hand from Jaime’s as she stepped over to the stall. The dark brown mare seemed to recognize her, huffing and kicking at the stall door. She pulled open the door and lead the horse from its enclosure, looking it over to be sure the horse was sound to take. It had the bridle and reins still attached, so she figured she wouldn’t deal with a saddle; she did just as well on bareback and saddling up would just mean time wasted that neither of them had. Jaime had committed two counts of treason by freeing both Tyrion and her and she was sure to be put to trial and lose her head, regardless, and she would not allow Jaime to suffer the same fate.

Ayleth looked over the horse once again before turning to face Jaime, who had been glancing around the stables to make sure no one had followed them and that no one was going to see them and what they were doing. They locked eyes beneath the shadow of their hoods and Ayleth drew in a deep breath of air. Jaime took a step forward, closing the distance between the two of them and taking her hand in his.

“I would like nothing more for you to run with me…but I know you have your duties here,” she said softly, eyes slipping between both of his. A wry smile curled his lips momentarily at her words and he swallowed hard.

“And I would gladly run with you, if not for those duties,” he replied and a sad smile twitched at the corners of Ayleth’s lips.

“Be safe, Ser Jaime,” she breathed, but her eyes were saying ‘I love you’ and Jaime could easily read it. His hand squeezed hers sharply and Ayleth’s bottom teeth found her lip gently, feeling her emotions gathering and threatening to spill forward once more.

“Don’t stop riding for a day or two. I’m uncertain if search parties will be sent for you immediately and you’ll need to put as much distance as possible between yourself and them if that’s the case,” he advised softly and Ayleth nodded a few times. Silence fell between the two of them, anxiety still twisting their insides and adrenaline running high. She closed her eyes for a moment before opening them slowly.

“Tell me we will meet again, Ser Jaime,” she said, her voice quivering slightly as she lifted her eyes to meet his once more. He gave her hand a soft squeeze, remembering the words she had spoken to him what seemed ages ago. “Even if you have to lie to me,” her voice grew hollow and low as she finished, knowing now, more than ever, there was even less of a chance of them ever meeting again. The golden knight before her managed a small, sad smile, a sigh leaving him as his emerald eyes, shadowed by the hood he wore, locked with her amethyst eyes, which were glittering with tears beneath the shadow of her hood.

“We will meet again, Ayleth Dayne, true Sword of the Morning,” he said, easily recalling the words he had replied to her with so long ago. He swallowed hard as Ayleth stood stock still for a few long moments, the horses around them snorting and shifting quietly in their stables. In a flash, she had closed the distance between the two of them and her mouth found his. He was quick to react against the kiss, eyes slipping shut as her hand grasped at the front of his cloak and pulled him close.

Their kiss was cut short by the bells sounding at the Sept, the sound forcing them to part and they both exchanged worried looks, knowing there was a good chance the freeing of both Tyrion and Ayleth had been discovered. Without another word, Ayleth detached herself from Jaime and she climbed upon her horse without a struggle. Situating herself on the tall horse, she grasped the reins in one hand, looking down at Jaime one last time. They shared a moment where their eyes locked before Ayleth dug her heels into the horse’s sides and she took off out of the stables and out an open gate of the city. Jaime followed behind her slowly, watching the form of the woman he had grown to care so much about disappear behind a line of trees. Thankfully, it looked like the guards that normally stood at the gate were took startled by the ringing of the bells and took no notice to the woman flying by them on a horse or the cloaked knight peering from the stables before sneaking out of the other exit.

Maybe he loved her, in some odd way. Maybe she meant more to him than Cersei ever did; she did treat him far better than his sister in their time together. Perhaps it was merely the series of events in which they had been reunited and his sister’s lack of sympathy for his lost sword hand and Ayleth’s insistence on helping him fight again. As his feet carried him swiftly back to the Red Keep, he reminded himself that they probably would never meet again and if they did, it would probably mean she was being brought to Kings Landing for her death. Still, he knew that she would find a way to survive and there was some part of him that hoped he and Ayleth Dayne would meet again, under far different conditions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus we reach the end of this part of the story. I have one more part left and then this series should be done. I could end it happily or tragically-I've been toying with two separate ideas. If you feel strongly either way, let me know. I'd like to get your opinion! Thanks for reading and I hope you've enjoyed!


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